Cold

The only way I know my mouth is open
is from the damp silver that reaches up,
from behind my tongue and teeth,
and waves a wispy hand ahead of me, an icy fog.
However, the chill has helped me to forget my features,
one by one brushed away by the winters wind-
a side effect of the bitterness of an unwell mother nature.
My eyelashes begin feeling like they’ve fallen victim,
to the almost arctic nature of the road I walk,
and now reside at the bottom of my lenses that frame my face,
but do nothing to protect me from the pinching breeze-
my cheeks are crimson with the weathers’ effort to leave me cold.

Four layers later with a hot cup of tea,
no longer walking; sitting, resting, whiling away the hours
with company in the form of mediocre re-runs
(Familiarity being a necessity in the act of keeping warm)
and cover in the shape of 3 pairs of socks.
Heating throbbing from walls and carpet,
clinging to the warped rubber of a smouldering water bottle,
as if it was something to have and to hold.

I’m still cold.

xXx